The thaler, which also originated from Muriseay, was now seen as the currency for big businesses and high spenders. The fact that this hotel defaulted to the thaler was a clue to the status and wealth of the regular clientele.
The receptionist slipped the original account into a shredder, and moments later a new version came smoothly out of the printer. She turned it around and slid it across the desk to me.
The sums of money were now at least comprehensible, roughly understandable in comparison with the prices of other expenses that I might have to bear. The first price on the list, for instance, the overnight use of the room, was approximately three times what I had ever paid before, in any other hotel anywhere.
I said: ‘My booking was made on my behalf by Dearth University. The Historical and Literary Society. Could you tell me, please, how much of this will be covered by them?’
She looked at her computer monitor, typed something. Still looking at the screen she said: ‘That’s correct, citizen sir. The information we have here is that the room was booked for you by the Revisionist History Department at Dearth University. A Professor S. Wendow. Is that name familiar to you?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘The arrangement as set out by Professor Wendow is that the university will cover the cost of the room, and a two course dinner without drinks. Breakfast is not included. The instruction we have is that you will settle the full amount on departure, and the university will reimburse you in due course.’
‘But I thought the account had been paid in advance—’
‘No, sir. If you have a bank card I can finalize the account immediately.’
I said nothing to the receptionist, as it was none of her fault. But a leaden feeling was descending on me. This was the worst of all worlds, a situation I recognized from past experience. I had already spent unexpected money during this trip: buying the arctic outer clothing, being hit with baggage excess charges during the flights. The hotel bill alone was likely to use up most of what I had at present in my account. I rarely have surplus money, and this was going to clean me out. But also, a particular dread: from past experience I knew what the words ‘settlement in due course’ from a university meant in reality. Weeks and months of waiting lay ahead.
Then there was the honorarium. How and when was that to be paid?
‘Do you have your bank card to hand, citizen sir?’ the receptionist said, bringing forward the remote card reader.
‘Of course. But I am trying to understand what I am being charged for.’
She leaned across the desk and indicated each item with her pen.
‘We have listed everything separately,’ she said, in a patient but noncommittal voice. ‘This is the main charge, for one night in the room. This amount here is for your dinner in the grill room last night – each course is shown separately, as are the couvert, the drinks and the optional service charge. Then there is the bar bill. Again, everything you ordered is itemized. This amount here is the standard hotel wifi charge, based on your two accesses to the internet. You used your home island’s protocols, not the Dearth defaults.’
‘I didn’t know there was a difference.’
‘Dearth defaults would have been less expensive.’ She indicated the bill again. ‘There are two internet accesses under your home protocol. The second amount is higher because of the broadband mutability increase. From 6 per cent to 47 per cent, as shown here. You would have confirmed acceptance of that before going online?’ I looked up at her, met her bland gaze. I nodded mutely. ‘Finally, there is breakfast, normally included in the room charge, but the instructions we had from Professor Wendow were that breakfast should be an optional extra.’
Beneath all these were three extra amounts, each of them huge. I tried to make sense of what they might mean and why they had been applied to my bill.
The first two were identically described as Standard Levy – electrical mutability abuse.
The third was called Seignioral surcharge – unauthorized horizontal prejudice.
‘What are these?’ I said, already suspecting the worst.
‘They are not hotel charges. We are obliged to charge our guests for them, and pass them on. The first two – it appears you exited your room without turning off the lights. That is a standard compensation fee set by the utility provider.’
‘Yes, but only once, and I went back immediately to put it right. And the second time I found the lights had turned themselves on when I returned to the room.’
‘That of course was related to the seignioral surcharge. You appear to have opened your room using the incorrect electronic key. That always turns all lights on as a reminder to the guest.’
‘Compensation for what?’ I said irritably. ‘And how does the seigniory apply a surcharge to people staying in your hotel?’
‘We have a contract with the electricity suppliers. If any of our guests interferes with the electrical mutability—’
‘But I’ve no idea what mutability is!’ I said too loudly.
‘Citizen sir, there is an explanatory booklet in every room.’ Her voice returned to its neutral note. ‘If a guest interferes with the electrical mutability a spike or a surge in the current follows, and the utility provider has to adjust the supply to the whole hotel.’ Her pen moved down to the third extra. ‘This one is because you entered your room using the incorrect key. We post warnings everywhere about that.’ She was still holding the bank card reader. ‘Sir, may I go ahead and scan your card?’
I stared down unhappily at the account, still with a feeling of disbelief, and a certain amount of panic. How could I possibly pay all this?
The receptionist moved away to attend to two other guests who had approached the desk.
I was travelling with two charge cards. One did not have a sufficient credit limit for me to put the hotel bill against. The other did have available credit, but it ran up a punitive rate of interest if the entire amount was not paid off within three weeks. There was really no choice therefore, but I was reluctant to use the second card. The immense charge and the inevitable interest penalty that followed would jeopardize my presently stable but often fragile finances, simply because of Wendow’s neglectful approach to my expenses. I could not imagine that he, earning a no doubt substantial professorial salary, would have the least idea of the trouble he was unwittingly causing me.
The receptionist returned, I proffered her the charge card, she ran it through the machine, she tore off a copy of the receipt. All was done.
‘Thank you for choosing the Dearth Plaza Hotel, Dr Fremde,’ she said. ‘We look forward to greeting you again. Please be sure to deposit your room key in the slot provided at the front of the desk.’
She smiled professionally at me and turned away to deal with other customers. I reached deep into my trouser pocket, found the key and slipped it into the return slot. I heard it fall with a plastic clicking noise as it landed in the heap of used key cards already in the receptacle. I was glad to be rid of the thing.
It was approaching 9.40 a.m. I had less than an hour to reach the train if Frejah Harsent had changed her mind about driving me, or did not turn up. With my outer clothes packed away, and only the vaguest idea of where the train station could be found, I felt the first stirring of traveller stress. I knew there was a taxi rank outside the hotel, but when I went to the main doors and peered through the thick glass I could see no cabs waiting.
Then Frejah Harsent appeared from the direction of the elevator block, and strode towards me. The stress instantly fled.
‘Good morning, Todd! I am ready to leave as soon as you are. I assume you have checked out. We have a long way to drive, so the sooner we start the better.’
We shook hands in a formal way. In the daylight flooding into the lobby she looked a taller, more formidable woman. She had an erect bearing, and a manner that implied she was used to making decisions others would concur with. The relaxed drinking companion of the evening before was recognizable beneath this unexpected
ly daunting image, but only just.
I gathered up my luggage, showing I was ready to leave immediately.
She led me to the elevators and selected the sub-basement level. The elevator doors opened on to a wide, sporadically lit parking area, with a concrete floor, concrete pillars, low concrete ceiling. Direction signs were everywhere, with arrows and stop signs painted on the walls and floor. The lot was about three-quarters full, most of the vehicles being of the large, off-road utility type. The cars shone under the overhead lights. A warm breeze fanned across the rows of vehicles and along the wide access tracks between the bays. I was certain I could sense a hint of blossom or spring flowers, wafting around in the artificially heated air.
She led me zigzagging between parked cars, aiming her remote electronic key ahead of her. One of the cars ahead beeped a loud signal response, its lights came on and the doors opened. This was to me an astonishing sight: the driver and passenger doors lifted upwards on hydraulic servos, folding into gull-wing shapes above the roof of the car. The trunk lid contrived to open fully, remain vertical and slide down half its length into a recess.
The car was a low-slung two-seat roadster, built for speed, painted a shining black, with steel-wire wheels, redwall tyres, aerodynamically perfect bodywork, deeply canted windshield, darkened side windows, a rear screen guarded by a narrowly slatted blind, a complete absence of chromium-plate trim. The roof of the car was not large, but it was studded with antennae: two short ones, three more presently retracted. They were positioned exactly to allow the doors to move into position when opened.
I recognized the marque instantly, and unbelievingly. It was a car for the car fanatic, the dream of adolescents of all ages. It was one of the road cars hand-built for supposedly advanced drivers by the engineering company who sponsored, manufactured and raced one of the most famous sports cars in the world. The company was based on one of the few commercially run islands in the Archipelago. This was the beach and mountain resort of Lillen-Cay, the playground of the super rich. No seignioral dynasty presided over the island. The only hierarchy was the scale of wealth, the size of private yacht, the speed of hand-built road car.
‘There is room for your luggage in the trunk,’ Frejah said. We walked around to it. The compartment was small. Her own bag was already there, standing tidily on edge to one side. I could get my larger one in by lying it down, with the smaller one on top. I made to retain my computer tote to have with me in the car. ‘Everything must go in here,’ she insisted. ‘Space inside is restricted.’
I placed my tote on top of the other cases, but it was obvious that when the lid came down it would crush against it. I turned the tote around, tried to ease it, pressed down. That made little difference. I moved my overnight case out, then put it back in again at a different angle.
Frejah stepped around, perhaps to guide or supervise me. As she did so the shadow she had been casting from one of the overhead lights moved with her. The inside of the trunk was suddenly visible to me. There was a gun there, a large weapon, an assault rifle, attached to the back wall, close up against the passenger compartment. It was partly concealed by Frejah’s own bag, partly by mine. It was disassembled, the parts mounted on a cushioned board: a snub barrel, metal stock, magazine, firing pin. I could see what it was.
In fact, I recognized it. For several years I have employed a technical consultant for my books, a retired police officer called Spoder, formerly a detective inspector with the Raba force. A few weeks ago I had asked him for advice on the type of gun one of my characters was likely to carry. Spoder had turned up at my house the next day with a portfolio of photographs and catalogue items. I recall the day was hotter than usual. I sat with him on the shaded patio outside my house as we went through them, eliminating the obviously unsuitable, until finally we settled on a choice of three. He left them with me, and I noted the details. As soon as I was able to do some more work on my manuscript after this trip I would select one and name and describe it in the book, cribbing all the technical detail some of my readers insist on. (I always suspect that many readers skip details like this, but if I try to omit them the publisher insists they must go in. I always snarl privately as I make the changes.)
What Frejah Harsent had stored in the trunk of her car was not one of those exactly, but it was similar. It was a semi-automatic compact rifle, with a snub-nosed barrel, self-reloading mechanism, and a multi-round magazine inserted into the grip. Assembled it would require both hands to fire it, with the weight cradled against one side of the body and braced against the arm that was firing.
I pushed in my computer tote against the top of the gun mount, and now there was sufficient clearance to close the trunk lid on top of it. As I straightened I looked towards Frejah, and she looked at me. I was thinking about the weapon. Our eyes met. She said nothing. I said nothing.
She touched her remote key and the lid silently raised itself out of the retaining recess, then swished down to close the compartment. There was a convincing sound of compressed air as it locked.
I walked around to the open passenger door. Frejah showed me the best way to enter: backside first, swivel my legs in, lean back and put weight on the back- and head-rest. ‘You’ll get used to that,’ she said. She walked around and swung herself in one smooth motion into the driver’s seat beside me, and brought down the doors.
Although I was reclining at near horizontal, the feeling of comfort, safety and control was total. I had perfect vision ahead, and could see to either side with ease. I have driven cars most of my adult life but I had never before experienced such a sensation of instinctive harmony between body and machine.
Frejah started the engine – there was an immensely satisfying roar from below and behind, and several LED instruments came instantly to life on the sculpted dash in front of the driver. After its first burst of power the engine settled into a potent idling, with barely any detectable vibration, a sense of energetic imminent release.
‘Is this your own car, Frejah?’ I said. I knew it was a stupid question even as I blurted it out, but I was overwhelmed by the discovery of what she drove around in. I felt something like an awestruck teenager finding himself materializing on the command deck of a spaceship.
‘It’s the car I use, yes,’ she said.
‘But do you own it?’ That was too direct, too impertinent. ‘I mean—’
‘I think of it as my car. No one else drives it.’ She revved the engine once, and a cloud of thin dark smoke billowed past the windows. ‘Now – we need to get to the train station.’
I was surprised, but said nothing to that. She had said she would drive me all the way to Tristcontenta, and in the last few seconds I had developed and was relishing the expectation of a day or two speeding across Dearth’s central plain in this extraordinarily lovely car. A short lift to the railway station was not what I was hoping for.
Frejah drove and controlled the car expertly through the parking lot access tracks. The highly tuned engine sounded awe-inspiringly on the point of erupting into devastating power. We approached the pay station and barriers, but Frejah made no attempt to slow the car. The barrier jerked suddenly upwards, almost as if in apology for having the temerity to be in the way. We swept underneath. After a long curving and ascending ramp we emerged into the cold daylight of Dearth City, a forest of tall buildings, with cars, buses and trucks everywhere, lighted advertising signs, a few pedestrians wrapped inevitably against the freezing air. None of them looked at us as we snarled past, presumably preoccupied by the need to arrive wherever they were going as soon as possible, not to gawp at passing cars.
I noticed that at every street junction, and jutting out at a low level from many industrial buildings, was a brightly lit digital display. The dazzling green image refreshed constantly: from the temperature (at that moment -19°C) to something called M per cent (‘Mutability’? – anyway standing at 7.5 per cent, although on some displays it showed as 7.25 per cent).
Swerving efficiently but n
ot dangerously between slower vehicles, Frejah soon reached the main entrance yard to the station. She pulled over into a zone clearly marked as prohibited for parking or waiting.
‘Are you leaving me here?’ I said, trying to conceal my sense of disappointment.
‘Do you still have the return half of your train ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go and claim a refund. You’ll see several cancellation automats next to the ticket office. There’s a machine readable code printed on the back of your ticket. Feed it into the slot, and collect the cash below. Or you can burn it into a charge card if you have one.’
‘I didn’t pay for the ticket myself.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Today’s a good day to claim a refund. Because of the strike there’s an element of compensation added to the ticket price, and because the strike has been going on for several days the railway company is obliged to refund an extra ten per cent, for tithes and commutations many passengers had to find.’
The door on my side of the car lifted effortlessly and silently. A blast of freezing air swept in on me. I had no outer protection! I levered myself out of the car seat as quickly as possible, and with a clumsy scrambling motion stood up on the concourse outside.
The car door whooshed down immediately. The engine was idling, the purring sound of a fantastically powerful giant cat, at the ready for a kill. I paid no more fanciful attention than that, and scuttled forward, crouching to try to minimize the impact of the cold.
The station entrance hall was not exposed to the outside air, but even so it was a chilly and draughty place. Music and announcements clashed on the overhead speakers, as before. The whole immense edifice was full of echoes. Three of the five cancellation automats were labelled as being out of service, one with a broken glass screen, but the first of the others I tried responded the instant I slipped in my charge card.
The Evidence Page 5
